TWELVE
LUCY
After I finish that one drink, I decide it's time to go home.
When I announce my intentions a mere five minutes after Jace purposely cock-blocks himself, and I return to our table dazed and more than a little confused, Ashton’s dark brows tug together. He's gotten chattier since we excused ourselves to the bar, and my plan to leave so early seems to catch him off-guard, temporarily drawing his attention from the story he was sharing about his evil, game console-stealing ex. Gwendolyn almost looks relieved for my interruption, but she offers to drive me wherever—should I decide to stay and get drunk off my ass.
For a moment, I consider her proposition. If I were lucky, a few drinks might melt away the cold lump that’s lodged in my windpipe. It’s been there ever since the man who took me to a sex party my first day of work caught my lip between his rough fingers, told me he wants to taste me, and then pointed out the importance of staying professional.
I’m still not sure whether to laugh at the irony or rock in a corner from the sting of rejection.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Jace’s blue gaze. His expression is unreadable, infuriating, as he rubs his long fingers over his mouth and beard. No matter how hard I’ll try, I won’t be able to forget the way that hand had felt in my hair and against my lips. And I won’t be able to stop the bittersweet pressure from forming between my legs whenever that memory haunts me.
Which is yet another reason I need to go.
Pursing my lips together, I shake my head at Gwendolyn. “Maybe another time?”
“Are you sure?” she asks, and when Jace mutters that I’ve told her I am “twenty fucking times already,” I can’t resist glancing at him. He’s leaned back in his chair, and if it weren’t for his clenched jaw and stiff posture, his mood would be unreadable. He lifts his eyes to mine, and I flinch when he narrows them.
Because, apparently, he has every reason in the world to be irritated.
“I promise I’ll get you home in one piece,” the blonde is saying when I tune back in.
Yeah, that’s what your cousin said my first day on the job, I think ruefully. And somehow, since that night, I’ve found myself being pulled in several different directions, and it’s all thanks to a cocky smirk and a bunch of muscles inside a flannel shirt.
Professionalism my ass.
“I’m definitely sure.” Standing and once again apologizing for having to take off so soon, I clutch my purse close to my breasts. There's some silly part of me that's afraid he’ll notice just how violently my heart is crashing against my ribcage, that he’ll somehow recognize the invisible strings constricting my lungs, and I hold my bag like a shield. I take a step away from the table.
"Afraid of—” Ash lifts his beer to his mouth, chugs half of it, then plops it down before giving his sentence another try. I feel sorry for the hangover he’ll have in the morning, but at least he’ll be able to forget his ex-girlfriend tonight. “—letting loose?”
No, I’m afraid of making a fool of myself with our boss.
"I've just got a busy day tomorrow helping my mother." It’s not a lie, but it’s also definitely not the reason I want to go. Ash is too busy mopping up a splash of Guinness with a wad of napkins to notice that my smile is forced or that Jace clenches his hand on the table. Gwendolyn sees. In fact, she hesitates for a moment, glancing between my flushed cheeks and the taut lines of Jace’s broad shoulders before she quietly glances away, grabbing more napkins from the center of the table to help Ash clean up his spill.
"You should stay," Jace says at last, his accent more pronounced because he’s forced to speak up over the background noise of the bar. “I want you to.” These are the first words he’s said directly to me since we came back to the table, and they drive me up the wall because they’re confusing.
So damn confusing I feel like the breath has been knocked out of me all over again.
I would have been perfectly content admiring the man from afar. Hell, I would have preferred it that way—the way it’s always been since I laid eyes on him over fifteen years ago—but then I screwed up by asking about his past relationship with the bartender. He responded by calling me beautiful. And then, he took it a step further and told me the very tip of the thoughts that run through his head whenever he sees me lick my lips.
Maybe he only said that simply to shock me—it wouldn’t be the first time—but what I do know is they affected me. His words had slipped right beneath my skin, beneath my veins, and had crept through my system. I don’t want to feel a reaction to him just to be rejected, so I’ll try my damnedest to watch what I do in front of him. I’ll take dry lips any day over getting worked up just to receive a monster letdown.
This is one I can already tell will keep me up all night.
“I really do need to get back to Worcester,” I tell Jace, struggling to keep my expression impassive. I crush my purse harder to my chest, flattening my breasts, and swallow hard. “But … thanks for inviting me.”
He rakes his hand through his messy dark hair and studies my features for a long pause. There's a look of sheer torture taking over his, but finally, he says, "You’ll thank me for that later, Williams." It takes every bit of self-preservation within me not to snort aloud at what he's just said, but he’s probably right.
He’s my boss.
He’ll write my paychecks.
He’s the same guy who turned me into a blushing disaster even when he was teasing me in school and introducing that sort of thing to our professional relationship might prove to be catastrophic for my heart.
I square my shoulders. "You know what? There’s no doubt in my mind I will, so maybe I should say it now: Thank you, Mr. Exley, for always being the definition of professionalism." The sarcasm dripping from my voice sends Gwendolyn's light brows shooting straight up, but I pretend I don’t see that as I narrow my hazel eyes at the smirk he gives me. Right now, I could smack that look right off his gorgeous face and wouldn’t feel a tingle of remorse.
“Something else I excel at, love?”
“Hmm.” Oh yeah, I really am seconds away from decking this guy. I cast him a smile that feels like it cracks the corners of my lips. "I'll see you on Monday.”
While the rest of my weekend is tame, I still find myself thinking of Jace at every turn. He's there, occupying my thoughts when I pick at my breakfast the next morning, shoving my bagel from one side of the plate to the other with a butter knife. A sick, twisted part of myself can't help but wonder if he’d taken another woman home last night after he shot me down. Maybe Michaela or some other gorgeous creature he'd never have to see again since there are so many other bars he can grace with his perfect beard and cocky grin.
Would he be eating breakfast with her right now? Would he touch her again after they were through and taste her ... everywhere? Hell, if it’s Michaela, maybe they pulled out their welding torches to work on new sex machines before they went for round ninety.
I choke on my coffee, drawing a deep scowl from my mother who asks if I'm getting sick. I tell her I'm not, but she still suggests I take a Dayquil before I leave for the gym.
And then Jace is on my mind when I return home from doing the one thing that relaxes me. I’m covered in sweat from my workout but still just as tightly wound because I’d passed by the rack of weight-lifting belts and clips at the gym and had immediately thought of metal waist cinchers and the wicked blue gaze of the man who designs them. As I shower, trailing the soap between the hollow of my throat and between my breasts, I ask myself what would’ve happened if I had refused to accept his bullshit about trying hard not to act on his thoughts. If I had, maybe I wouldn't be alone in a shower right now, frustrated and seconds away from opening that drawer of playthings, as he had called it.
"Fuck," I whisper aloud. "Fuck you so hard, Jace Exley, for making me feel like ... this."
I finish my shower quickly, and when my eyes settle on my nightstand drawer as I search for something to wear, I release another aggravated breath. Then, I curse Jace again just for good measure and turn my back to the set of drawers.
I can still see it in my dresser mirror, though.
Shit.
Once I'm dressed in a ratty old sweatshirt and a pair of leggings with a bleach stain on the right thigh, I find my mother in the laundry room. She's carefully sorting through the clothes like she did when I was a kid--she has a strict system where she only washes the same color together, and she still gives me a hard time about my own three load method: permanent press, gym clothes, and pale colors.
"Do you still want to work on the attic today?" I ask, leaning against the doorway and watching her check the pockets of her jeans for any loose change or tissues. When she finds neither, because she always empties her pockets before she dumps her clothing in the bathroom hamper, she shakes the denim vigorously and tosses it in the washer.
"Only until four or five. I have dinner reservations tonight, and I'm leaving at six." I wait for her usual invitation—her you should come with me, Lucinda Jane, so you won't be lonely—but that doesn't happen. I cup my elbow and tap my fingertip against the center of my lips. Mom blanches. "Why are you looking at me like that?”
"Do you have a date, Mother?" I ask, and for the first time today, I feel an authentic grin work across my features.
"I'm fifty-five," she says. As if to demonstrate her age, she feigns stiffness as she bends over to grab another pair of jeans from the laundry room floor. "I'm too old for dates."
"Yes, well, let me rephrase that: Is your dinner plans with a man?" She cuts her eyes at my question, which automatically gives me my answer.
"It's not what you think," she scolds, flushing, and I hope it’s exactly what I think.
Growing up, it was never a secret that my father was the only man my mother had ever been with—after all, she had drilled it into my skull when she gave me the keep-your-legs-closed talk. My parents had met when my father was based at Camp Castle, and my mother was working in Seoul to send money home to her family. Dad always said it was love at first sight. Even with her reserved demeanor and his larger-than-life personality, they had built a lasting marriage and had given me a happy childhood. They'd wanted more children and when that hadn’t happened for them, they had doted on the one daughter they had. I had grown up admiring their relationship, wanting the same for myself and ending up with the first person that told me he was in love with me.
Running my fingers through my wet hair, I clear my throat and Mom looks up at me. Her lips worry together. "For what it's worth, I think it's good you're doing ... not what I think ... with a gentleman friend." She's always saying she doesn't want me to be alone, but I don't think she's ever stopped to consider herself. After Dad died four years ago, she claimed she would never be with another man because she didn't want to dishonor his memory. He wouldn't see it that way, though, and he'd want her to move on.
He loved her too much not to want her to be happy.
She offers me a tentative smile as she gently lowers the washer lid. Dipping her head slightly, she murmurs, "Thank you for your blessing."
Although we don't bring up her plans again over the next five hours while we go through boxes in the attic, filling large black contractor bags with clothes and old blankets to give to charity, we have plenty to talk about. She tells me about how irritated her friend Cynthia was last night after she won twice at Texas Hold 'Em—a game my father taught her shortly after they got married—and she asks me how work is going.
We've been so busy cleaning that I, fortunately, haven't given Jace much thought since that moment of utter weakness when I considered opening my nightstand drawer. My smile slips and Mom's brows drag together.
“Everything okay?” She neatly folds a white sweater and stacks it on top of several others. "You having trouble at work?"
I shake my head, but she doesn't look convinced. Easing down on the pink beanbag chair that I used to lounge on to read by my bedroom window, I give her what I hope is a convincing smile. "We've been very busy this week," I say, which is the truth. Valentine's Day is right around the corner. While I've been collaborating with Andi on our website and with various resources to secure new promotional opportunities, the guys have been hard at work fulfilling kinky orders for the international day of love.
"You should have said something," she admonishes with a tight frown. She folds another sweater, and I'm surprised it doesn't tumble over the rest of the stack when she places it at the very top. "I wouldn't have asked you to help me if I knew you were tired—"
"My brain is tired," I quickly rush to assure her. This is yet another truth. My brain is exhausted from all the stressing and debating over one Jace Exley, and it's becoming bothersome. I need to put him out of my head and get back to strictly professional thinking.
Even if that hasn’t happened once since I walked into his office the day of my interview.
"My hands and body"—I wiggle my fingers as I climb to my feet and approach a box labeled Lucy's Toys—"are definitely awake."
"Hmm, if you say so." She returns her focus to her sweaters. We work in silence for a few minutes, with me occasionally pulling the string of an old toy or hitting a power button to ensure something is still in working condition and Mom humming "Cheek to Cheek." I'm in the middle of dropping an armful of Barbie dolls into a contractor bag when she clears her throat.
I glance up to see her lightly pinching the skin at her neck. "What's wrong?"
"You get paid next week?"
It's something I've been anticipating since the moment Jace offered me the job and before I knew precisely what I would be pitching, and my nod is a bit more enthusiastic than I intend. "Why? Do you need me to give you something toward—”
She rubs her throat more vigorously, lifting her other hand to stop me. "No, no, nothing like that. I just remember you said you wanted to look for a place of your own."
"Yes, that’s right."
"I was just thinking that maybe it would be best if you just stayed here longer. To save up your money." I raise my eyebrows, so she shifts her gaze to a pair of pink and white Converse tied together at the laces and sitting at the top of a box of shoes. Judging from their size, they must have belonged to her because I had inherited my father’s large feet. "You're not bothering me."
When I moved in with my mother two months ago, my only goal was to get the hell out and into my own place as quickly as humanly possible. But hearing her asking me to stay lessens my resolve.
"Are you sure this is just about saving me money?” I say, trying to keep my tone light and teasing despite the lump that’s formed in my windpipe. “I’m beginning to think you love having me around, even if I do lose my phone and keys every five minutes and I make a lot of noise when I flush the toilet in the middle of the night.”
Her head is bent and her black bob partially shields her face, but I still make out the ghost of a smile quirking her lips. She lifts her slim shoulders slightly and softly confirms, "I like your noise better than Tony and Gaga's."